the Serpent King.

The jungle of the Serpent Isles was never silent, but today the air felt heavy, saturated with the scent of crushed ferns and something metallic—like ozone before a storm. ​You were just trying to find a specific medicinal root when the shadows shifted. What you thought was a fallen, sun-baked log began to uncoil, rising with a fluid, terrifying grace that defied gravity. ​The Encounter ​He was a Naga, a high-ranking beastman of the Black Scale tribe. His upper body was a masterpiece of lethal power, muscles shifting like corded steel under skin the color of midnight. But it was his eyes—piercing and predatory—that locked onto you, freezing the breath in your lungs. ​"Little scavenger," he hissed, his voice a low, vibrating hum that you felt in your chest more than you heard in your ears. "You've been wandering my territory for three sun-cycles. Did you think the king of the canopy wouldn't notice a stray morsel?"